In-Between
by beeeinyourbonnet
Summary: Death only aims once, but never misses.
1. Prologue

The only reason Mr. Gold knew that her name was Belle French was because he had seen her walking into the library to sit at the circulation desk, and he knew the name of every public figure—even down to the man in charge of sewage. She knew he was Mr. Gold because everyone knew that he was Mr. Gold, but they never said each other's names.

They never said much, really. They'd been coming to the same coffee shop at the same time for a month, and whether it was by coincidence or not, Mr. Gold always ended up behind her in line, reading whatever book she had brought over her shoulder. Sometimes, he enjoyed it—like when she brought poetry or Kurt Vonnegut—but other times, it was romance novels or trashy mysteries. Still, he read over her shoulder, and she held it just a little higher than was natural, and sometimes, she'd ask his opinion.

He was never nice, even if he liked something, and Belle French had an eye roll just for him. It was more polite than most gestures he received, and she always followed it with a hidden smile, and he would have to look away to hide his own.

It took him that whole first month to realize that he could ask her if she wanted to sit down and drink their coffee together. It took another week for him to gather the courage, but he took the fact that she didn't have a book with her that day as a good sign. She was even wearing blackberry red lipstick—as though she had dressed for seduction.

"Oh, I'm sorry—I have to run to a meeting today," she said, biting her lip.

He swallowed—no one would wear lipstick like that for him. "Of course. I hope it goes terribly."

She rolled her eyes, and pressed her smiling lips together. "Tomorrow?"

Something caught in his throat. It might have been surprise. "Ah—yes. Yes, I am available tomorrow."

"Okay." She faced forward so that she could move toward the now-free counter, and then glanced back. "I'll see you then."

* * *

Reading the paper was an antiquated hobby, but Mr. Gold had been doing it every morning since his eighteenth birthday, and he was loathe to give it up—even if the _Storybrooke Mirror _was a pile of shit handcrafted by the mayor to make her look better, and he'd have gotten better news from opening up his computer and scrolling through CNN.

Instead of the front page detailing the mayor's new campaign to make the town better, the headline read 'SHOOTOUT IN MAIN STREET.' It was over a large photo of a scruffy man in a leather jacket with a bleeding cut on his forehead—the shooter, probably.

For an article like this, he figured he'd want to dedicate actual attention, so he set his paper down and buttered his toast. After a beat, he went to the fridge for the blackberry jam and added that as well, then sat down with his finished breakfast and coffee and unfolded his paper.

The man in the photograph was named August Booth, age 35. He'd been in town a week, and was the shooter's intended target, but had been pushed out of the way. His rescuer was in critical condition at the hospital, and the doctors were not optimistic. Mr. Gold took a bite of his toast, getting jam on his upper lip. Instead of wiping it off with his napkin, he licked it, then set his toast down to reach for his coffee.

_It is unknown why Belle French, age 29, was at the scene of the crime, but it seems she was Booth's guardian angel. Booth told the _Mirror_ that, after shouting did nothing to dissuade his attacker, French ran toward him and shoved him out of the way of an oncoming bullet, taking the blow herself. The bullet injury was non-fatal, but French fell onto the pavement and hit her head. She was unconscious when paramedics arrived on the scene, and is now currently hooked up to life support in the hopes that she might awaken soon. Police have not caught the shooter, but Booth is aiding in any way he can. _

Mr. Gold set his paper down as though the table might shatter if he wasn't careful. His toast followed, and then his coffee cup, and then his reading glasses. After clasping his hands over the newspaper, he bowed his head and closed his eyes.

It was just as well that Belle French was in critical condition. Death was the only sure way to escape from the likes of him.


	2. Death's Aim

Everything was sand. It was under her fingernails, in the folds of her dress, in the soles of her pumps and between her toes. Her cheek was pressed to hot sand and her legs were tangled up in it. When she opened her eyes, it was all she could see.

With a groan, she rolled onto her stomach and struggled to her knees. Her blue dress—her favorite blue dress—was covered in grit and sand, and her palms stung when she pressed them into the ground so that she could stand up.

She brushed her palms onto her skirt, getting off as many grains as she could, then turned around to find herself face-to-face with a woman.

"Good. You're awake."

Belle could only stare, mouth dry and filled with hot air. She was a handsome woman, straight out of a twenties gangster film with a fox-fur shawl and diamond collar necklace. Her midnight black hair was done up in elaborate curls that would have taken hours to hand-craft, held together with diamond-studded bobby pins.

"Are you the devil?" Belle asked.

The woman pursed her blood red lips, and Belle expected her to berate her for asking such stupid, obvious questions, but instead she just said, "Hardly."

"Oh." Belle frowned. She was dead, wasn't she? Clearly not in heaven—heaven wouldn't have so much sand—but dead and somewhere. Unless being shot had taken her to a parallel desert universe.

"I'm Death."

Belle frowned, and cocked her head to the side like a confused poodle. "Excuse me?"

"Death. And you've inconvenienced me."

She didn't look inconvenienced. She looked like she was on her way to a speakeasy on the arm of her mobster boyfriend.

"Death? Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Would I lie to you?"

Belle eyed her, starting with her sparkling silver Mary Jane heels and ending in her million dollar coiffure, taking in the black satin dress and the white fox shawl, and all the diamond jewelry dripping from her fingers and ears.

"Maybe."

The woman—Death—heaved a long-suffering sigh, and wrapped her shawl more tightly across her décolleté. "Why are you so suspicious? Everyone knows that Death is trustworthy."

"I don't know, maybe because I'm dead, and this is confusing?" She folded her arms, feeling sand in the bend of her elbow.

Death jutted her hip out, knees knocking into one another. "I never miss, you know. When it's someone's time, I aim, I shoot, and I hit a bull's eye."

"Well, congratulations. I'm dead now. You hit another bull's eye." Belle clapped three times, then folded her arms again.

"But, dear, you weren't the target. And now I am inconvenienced."

"Were you the one shooting that man?"

Death huffed, and shifted her weight to the other shapely hip. "Yes. That man was named August Booth, and he got into some trouble in New York a month or so back. I helped one of his old friends realize that he needed to die, and then together we came after August. Then you—"

"Wait, you speak to people? In the real world?"

"No. I just sort of—tweak them. I could make you want to kill someone right now if I wanted to, but that wouldn't do any good. You're already dead."

Belle frowned. "So what does it matter that you got the wrong person? You still got a person. A life for a life, right?"

"I didn't want _you_. It wasn't your time. Who are you to die? Just a librarian? Besides, you're already annoying me."

A little stung, Belle swallowed. "Is that why I'm here, then? Because I wasn't meant to die?"

"No." Death put her hands on her hips. "You're here because you're not dead."

"What?" She was dead—she had been shot, she was in a place covered in sand, and she was conversing with Death. Death herself had said that she did not speak to the living.

"You're not dead yet."

"I don't understand. Why am I here, then?"

"You died, but you're not yet dead."

Had anyone ever knocked Death in the head to make her less confusing? Belle was considering it. "I don't understand."

"You—Annabelle French—are dead. But you're not dead."

"Okay, you keep repeating it, and I still don't understand. Could you maybe explain this time, instead of just adding my name in?"

Death groaned, sounding like a hungry wolf, and stalked closer in her low-slung heels. "You—" She gripped Belle's shoulders, shaking her for emphasis. "—are dead. Right here. But the you out there—your body—is not. You're hooked up to a machine keeping your body alive."

Belle frowned. If she wasn't dead, then how had she died? "So where am I?"

"You're in Limbo. It's where people who can't pass judgment go—people with strong unfinished business tying them to the world, or people who took death into their own hands without my permission." Death stepped back, shrugging her shawl down and exposing ivory shoulders.

"So—" Belle chewed the inside of her cheek. "So, did I take death into my own hands?"

"No. You didn't intend to die."

"I have unfinished business, then?"

"Right." Death stuck her hip out again. "You haven't finished dying."

"So I'm here until my body dies?" This ocean of sand was even worse than getting shot.

"Yes. Unless they find a way to return you to it, I guess, but your financial situation indicates that they'll give up before that can happen."

"Great." Belle swallowed, throat dry. "So where can I find some water?"

Death looked at her, lip curled in a sneer. "Why? It's not like you can die of thirst."

That was true, at least. Up here, Belle couldn't die of anything. The thought was not a comforting one.

* * *

She couldn't die of exhaustion, either, but that didn't mean she couldn't feel it. After walking for hours through the endless sand, her legs were cramped and her face was hot and her throat felt like it was made of sandpaper. She sank to her knees, needing a rest.

"August Booth, if you don't live your stupid life to the fullest—" She sighed, sinking down further. She didn't really care what August Booth did or didn't do with his life. She wanted this sand to end.

The desert must have been getting to her, because there was no way she could have heard the soft rumble of a car in the distance. She closed her eyes when the sound got closer, pressing her face into her almost-clean forearm to try and regain some sanity.

She couldn't ignore the shadow that passed over her, or the way the rumbling stopped as though an engine had been turned off, rather than as if her mind had decided to stop making the noise. Lifting her head, she found herself staring at an old Cadillac that looked as if it had been wrapped around several trees in its lifetime.

If it was in Limbo, it probably had been.

"Hey." A man hopped out of the driver's seat and knelt next to her. He was not covered in sand, so this desert had to have ended somewhere.

"Hi." She swallowed, tilting her head to take in all of him. He wasn't too tall, and he hunched over a little bit like he was used to making himself invisible, but he had an open smile that reminded her of firemen and big dogs.

"You okay?" He held his hand out to her, pushing up the sleeve of his ratty sweatshirt.

"Thirsty." She took his hand, and he pulled her to her feet. "And sandy."

"Well, I can fix the thirst." He leaned into the open car door, and retrieved a canteen. "And if you come with me, I can find you a towel."

It was unwise to trust strange men, but if thirst, exhaustion, and Death couldn't kill her, then neither could he. "Thank you." She accepted the water and took a long sip. "I thought there wasn't any water here?"

"It's sparse, but it's there. You just have to know where to find it. Hop in, I'll take you to town."

Belle lowered the canteen, staring at the man. "Town? Aren't we in purgatory?"

"Limbo, but yeah, there's a town. Wherever there are people, civilization is bound to spring up. Come on."

Once in the car, with solid metal between her and all the sand, Limbo didn't seem as bad. There were people there, at least—real ones, instead of the moaning and groaning spirits that she'd been imagining. There were objects she recognized, and cars, and water, and probably food. She could wait out her time here.

"I'm Belle," she said. "Thanks for picking me up."

"It's no problem. I'm Neal."

Neal drove like his car was held together with chewing gum. Maybe machinery wasn't as untouchable as people were here in Limbo—without a soul, a machine could fall apart with no repercussions.

"Is it polite to ask how people got here?" Belle asked, watching sand go by out the window.

"Are you trying to ask me how I got here?"

She glanced sideways to see if Neal looked angry, but he had the same easy smile as before. "If you don't mind."

He shrugged. "It wasn't a suicide, so you don't have to tiptoe around my feelings. I, uh, stole my dad's car because he didn't want me to—do something. It was raining pretty hard out, and I was on this empty highway, and a deer crossed the road. When I swerved to miss it, the car hydroplaned and I slammed into a tree. Crushed the car, cracked my skull, and died before paramedics arrived."

Belle pressed a hand over her mouth. Poor Neal, but even worse—his poor father. Their poor family. "I'm so sorry."

He shrugged. "It's been four years, I think. Not really sure—time doesn't pass the same here as it does there."

"But wait—if you died in a freak accident, Death must have known."

"Oh, yeah, Death was really helpful." Neal shrugged. "It was fucking terrifying out there, in the car, alone, in the rain. I couldn't call anyone because I was unconscious, but since I was dying, I was having a sort of out-of-body experience, you know? She came and held my hand. At the time, I thought she was my girlfriend, but when I ended up here, I realized who she was."

"So, if Death meant for you to die, then why are you here?"

"Unfinished business, I guess. Same as half the people here." His fingers tightened on the wheel, and he clenched his jaw. "Regret."

Belle didn't want to ask what it was he regretted and make him relive it, but the truth was right in front of her. "Your father?"

"I can't even imagine how he feels. It was such a stupid fight." He took a deep breath, then turned to her. It didn't matter if he watched the road—it was just sand. "So how did you die?"

"Well, a man was about to be shot, so I pushed him out of the way and got shot myself."

"So what's your story, then? Unsolved murder keeping you angry? Big life regret?"

She shook her head. "Apparently, I didn't die."

He slammed on the brakes, sending them both lurching forward. The car made a noise like a cat scratching a blackboard. "What do you mean, you didn't die?"

Belle shrugged, settling back into the flaking seat. "I don't know. I got here, and Death found me, and told me I wasn't dead. That's why I'm here—that's my unfinished business. This part of me is dead, but my body isn't."

Neal was quiet as he started driving again, lips drawn in thought. "So, if your body is alive, does that mean you can get back to it?"

She looked over at him, and he was looking at her, so she shrugged. "I don't know. Death seemed to think it would take something on my body's end to make that happen."

The car picked up speed again, trundling through the desert like it was built for such difficult terrain. Neal watched the horizon with the concentrated contemplation of a philosopher reading poetry, and Belle watched Neal.

"I think I know someone who might be able to help," he said.

"You do?"

"It'll be dangerous, though."

Belle snorted. "I'm already dead. What do I have to be afraid of?"

"I like the way you think." He looked over at her. "But first, we need to make a pit stop."


	3. The Devil's Advocate

They drove for an hour before the sand started to be broken up by wood planks and scraps of metal. Neal assured Belle it wasn't far, and then a town sprung up like he'd conjured it. The car slowed to a crawl, trudging down the sand-road.

It was like a town from a Western movie, but with things like neon signs and plastic. The people she could see were just as solid as Neal was, though plenty of them were dressed from different eras. One woman standing outside a run-down diner had her hair teased into a beehive and was wearing neon yellow leggings and an oversized denim shirt.

"What is this place?" Belle asked, face all but pressed to the window.

"We call it Sanditon."

She looked over at him, waiting for him to tell her this was some terrible joke. When he said nothing, she pressed her face to the window again. "A Jane Austen fan must have come here."

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

They drove through Sanditon, past an empty-looking grocery store, some houses, a saloon, and a jewelry boutique. When Neal stopped the car, it was in front of a log cabin. He parked, motioning for Belle to get out.

"Is this where you live?" She stumbled as she stepped onto the sand, too busy looking at the house to pay attention.

"Yup. Me and a few other guys. You can stay here, too. We have an extra bed."

Living in a log cabin with a bunch of dead people was not in Belle's life plan, but at least it was an adventure. It was preferable to being alone, too, so Belle smiled and thanked him, and followed him into the cabin.

It was sparsely furnished, as though everything inside of it had been picked off front lawns and dumpsters. There was a small coffee table with a radio on it surrounded by a loveseat carpeted in seventies-style upholstery, two half-melted lawn chairs with shirts taped to them as makeshift cushions, a stool whose leg had been broken and nailed back into place, and a metal rocking chair with dents that might have been made by stray golf balls.

"It's lovely," she said, closing the door behind her.

"It's not much, but it's home." He unzipped his jacket and shrugged out of it, flinging it onto one of the melted lawn chairs. "Let me find you a towel. Maybe some new clothes."

"Oh, um—I'd like to keep wearing this." She wrapped her arms around herself, fingers closing around the belt of her dress.

Neal shrugged. "A jacket then, at least. Some places here are cold."

"Neal? Neal, is that you?" an Irish-accented voice called from somewhere behind a shadowy doorway.

"Yeah. We have a guest. Can you grab me a towel?"

There was the sound of retreating steps, and then some doors slamming, and Belle craned to see anything through the darkness of the doorway, but there were no lights in the hallway.

"So is there food here, too?" she asked, sparing Neal half a glance for the question.

"Yeah, but it's hard to come by. We don't even have a fridge."

"What about sleep? You said there were beds?"

"We don't need sleep, either, and it's harder to sleep the longer you're here, but sometimes it's nice to lay down."

"Here." A man in a white undershirt and oversized grey sweats appeared in the doorway carrying a stained towel that might have once been blue, and Belle gasped.

"Graham?"

Graham's eyes widened, and then he was rushing over with the towel, and they were hugging like old friends.

"You guys know each other?" Neal asked.

"Ugh, you're covered in sand." Graham stepped back, brushing off his front.

"Yeah, we went to high school together." Belle plucked the towel out of his hands, and started to rub herself down.

"I haven't seen you in years," Graham said, looking at her like she was breaking his heart. "What happened to you?"

"Got shot." She slipped her shoes off so that she could work the towel between her toes. The sand was never going to be gone. "But my body hasn't died yet, so that's my unfinished business."

"You're not dead?" Graham's face wrinkled. "How does that work?"

"I guess I'm in a coma, but I'm not really sure. What about you? I heard you had a heart attack?"

Graham let out a mirthless snort of laughter, then stomped over to the lumpy sofa. There was a wad of navy fabric balled into the corner, and he yanked that out and stuffed himself into it while Neal pinched the bridge of his nose, glaring at Belle over his fingertips.

"I take it you're mad for more reasons than the fact that you were too young and in good health to have a heart attack?" Belle asked, jumping when Graham pivoted on his toes to face her.

"It was no heart attack. I was murdered."

"Here we go. I'm going to find you a jacket." Neal disappeared into the hallway, leaving Graham to stare off into the distance.

"Murdered? Do you know by who?"

"I know." Graham jabbed his thumb toward his chest, at the Sherriff's badge glinting on his pocket. "But it was ruled as a heart attack, wasn't it? So I'm the only one who knows."

"So who did it?"

"My girlfriend's mother."

Belle dropped the towel. "What?" Who had Graham dated in high school? She couldn't remember him hanging around anyone—the only reason they ever spoke was because they sometimes ended up together in the library while trying to avoid the rest of the world.

"She poisoned me."

"Wouldn't that have shown in a toxicology report?"

"It's small-town Maine. No one suspected foul play—except for me, but I was already dead."

"Right." She knelt to pick up the towel. If she managed to get back into her body, she could solve Graham's murder. Graham would be able to pass on.

"Hey, Graham!" Neal called from somewhere in the back. "Where's Daniel? Do you think he needs this red jacket?"

"He's with Peter picking up the grog. He'll survive without it."

"What's grog?" Belle asked, watching Neal's shadow approach the hallway entrance. Light worked strangely in Limbo.

"It's the liquor here. You should try some," Graham said.

"She can't right now." Neal handed the sweatshirt over, and Belle shrugged into it. It smelled like potatoes. "I'm taking her to Pan."

The way Graham paled made Belle feel like she hadn't gotten all the sand out of her throat. What was Pan? "What are you doing that for?"

"She's not dead—she needs to find a way to get back to her body. I figure if anyone can help, he can."

Graham eyed Belle, and then looked back at Neal. "It's worth a shot—but I'm coming with you."

Neal grinned. "Good. I was hoping you'd say that."

* * *

"So where are we going, exactly?" Belle asked once they were back in the Cadillac. Graham was in the backseat, police jacket at odds with his sweats, but almost as worn-down.

"We're taking you to see Pan." Neal watched the road, squinting out at the horizon like he was waiting for some sort of landmark. He must have been here a long time to be able to navigate the sea of nothingness.

"What is that?"

"Not what," Graham said. "Who."

"Okay—who is that?"

"Peter Pan," Neal said. "The real one. Legend around here is that Barrie was inspired by him."

Belle frowned, shifting in her seat so that she was facing both men as best she could. "So, wait. Barrie came back to life?"

"According to legend," Graham said. "That's why, if anyone can point you in the right direction, it's Pan."

"But he's dangerous? Or is he just a child?"

"He looks like a child," Neal said. "But he's hundreds of years old, at least."

"He might be as old as time," Graham said. "He gives me the creeps."

Belle swallowed, sinking back into the passenger seat. Even Neal was quiet as they drove on, the flat sand giving way to dunes and craters. Perhaps they were changing countries—or even just states. Sanditon couldn't possibly house everyone in Limbo. There had to be other towns somewhere.

"Is everything here hours apart?" she asked when half an hour brought only this small change.

"Nah. Just feels that way. We're almost there."

Five or so minutes later, Belle didn't need Graham's grave declaration that they had arrived to know that the stone monolith meant the entrance to Pan's area. It cast a shadow across the car, bathing them in darkness as they drove around it.

Neal parked on the other side, shutting the car off and twisting around to face Belle. "Okay. So here's the deal—Pan can help you, but only if he thinks you have bad intentions."

"What?"

"You have to make him think you want revenge or to wreak havoc or something."

"Wait—what? I don't understand. What does he do?"

"Well, you know how we're stuck here?" Graham asked. "Kids that die—they get stuck here, too. So Pan convinces them that Hell is better than Limbo, and sends their spirits back to earth to haunt people, but only if he believes that that's what they'll do. So you have to make sure he believes you."

"He didn't believe me," Neal said. "And he's the only one who can send you back."

"But I'm a terrible liar." She turned to look at Graham, who shrugged. "If he didn't believe you, how will he believe me?"

"Make him believe," Neal said. "Cry. Scream. Whatever. Tell him you were murdered. But don't tell him anything personal."

"What? Oh god." Why had they waited until now to tell her what was going on?

"You're going to be fine. Come on. We have to go on foot from here."

Graham and Neal flanked Belle, leading her past the monolith and back into the harsh sunlight. She should have asked Neal for some socks so that she wouldn't be traipsing around the dessert in her heels, but at least the pain in her feet would give her a reason to sound crotchety to Peter Pan.

They slogged up a hill, both Neal and Graham holding onto Belle's hands as her heels slipped in the sand, and when they crested the top, it was night.

"What—?" Belle sagged onto Graham. Behind them, the sun still shone like a heat lamp, but in front of them, it was dark as midnight.

"Pan. He's powerful," Neal said.

In the darkness, Belle could just make out the outline of a forest, and a few pinpricks of flickering light. Neal started to drag her forward again, but they were stopped when a shape threw itself in front of them.

"Stop!" the shape screeched. "Don't go in there, you're making a mistake!"

"What's going on?" Belle whispered, backing into Graham.

"Calm down, Astrid, it's me," Neal said, bending down to the shape—who was apparently a woman. It was hard to see in the dark.

"Neal?" Astrid scrambled up, and Belle could make out her bright, panicked eyes. "What are you doing back here?"

"I have to take her to see Pan."

Astrid tripped toward Belle. "No! You can't—you can't go back to Earth to do bad things, it won't make it better!"

"I'm not going to do bad things," Belle said. "I just need to go finish some business."

"If you go back and do good things, you could leave this place, too!" Astrid lurched forward, gripping the unzipped edges of Belle's jacket. "Don't let Pan seduce you into sin."

"I don't think there's a danger of that," Neal said, trying to pry Astrid away from Belle. "Come on, Belle, we have to get going."

Belle couldn't see how it happened, but somehow Neal ended up in one direction with Astrid and Graham pulled Belle in the other, rushing down the hill and into the darkness. Neal caught up with them at the bottom, brushing his jacket off.

"What's her story?" Belle asked, folding her arms against the chill descending like a blanket.

"She was a nun," Neal said. "Not sure much else. Come on, you have to start getting mad. Pan can sense that shit."

Arm in arm and shivering, the three of them walked forward. They must have looked like Dorothy and company skipping down the yellow brick road, except they were all freezing and hunched over.

The first sound they heard was a child screaming, and Belle tripped over Graham. The scream was echoed by dozens more, and it was only when hoards of boys dressed in ratty clothes with giant sticks swarmed through the trees that Belle realized it had been a battle cry, not terror.

"Don't fight it," Neal said, letting go and spreading his arms wide so that he could be tied up. "They always do this."

Next to her, Graham was doing the same, so Belle let her arms fall to the side. She was seized by small, rough hands, and her wrists were lashed together behind her.

"Walk," came a deep voice, and then they were being prodded forward with some of the sticks. No one had mentioned anything about being kidnapped by children. Belle grit her teeth together.

They were frog-marched through the darkness, and when an obstacle approached, their captors jerked them out of the way like rag dolls. By the time the flickering glow of a fire came into view, Belle's hair was in disarray, her arms and legs were numb, and her feet felt like they were slowly disintegrating in acid.

As they walked closer, Belle's captor yelled something in gibberish, and Graham's captor yanked him backward.

"You can't go forward," Belle's captor said. "Pan doesn't like you."

"Okay, but I'm going to be right here," Graham said, looking him in the eye. "Waiting for them."

"As you wish." He made another screeching gibberish noise, and boys swarmed Graham, dragging him over to the nearest tree.

Belle bit her lips together, holding in her cry of outrage as she watched them tie Graham to the tree. Neal had told her not to fight—this was probably just a game to the wild boys, dead before their time. Besides, Peter Pan had to believe she was on his side.

When Belle's captor made a satisfied grunt, they were shoved forward again, leaving Graham alone in the dark. Soon, the fire was in full view, and Belle was tripping forward on a pile of twigs. Rough hands steadied her just enough to push her forward, and then she was standing before an empty throne made of twigs, rocks, and animal bones.

"Thank you, Felix," came a voice.

Belle jumped back into Felix just as someone dropped from the trees above. Next to her, Neal made a loud, impatient smacking sound.

The person, crouched on the ground like a cat ready to strike, snapped up to look at Belle. The light illuminated his knobby knees and forest green shirt, but kept his face hidden in orange shadow. His lips spread, revealing sharp teeth, and Belle swallowed.

"Neal," he said, straightening up. "Good to see you. How's your father?"

Belle felt her face heat, lips curling back at Pan's chuckle. Felix twisted the rope binding her wrists, burning the skin it touched, so Belle clenched her jaw.

"Leave us," Pan said, walking around the fire. "I want to be alone with the woman."

Belle cast a panicked look at Neal, who was digging his heels into the ground, struggling against his miniature captor.

"No, I'm staying right here!" he said, and he almost broke free, but then he was flat on the ground and being dragged out.

"You, too, Felix." Pan slunk over, stopping a foot from Belle.

"Should I untie her?"

"No." He clasped his hands behind his back, angling his head so that he was smirking down at Belle. "I think I'd prefer her bound."

Felix tugged on her wrist ties, and then he, too, was gone, leaving Belle alone in a circle of dark forest with a boy. Her arms ached, but at least the fire was providing wavering warmth as long as Pan wasn't standing in front of it.

"So," he said, circling her like a panther. "What's your name?"

"Belle." She swallowed, then thrust her nose in the air. She needed to be angry. Neal was too interested in going with the flow, and that was probably how he'd failed—Belle could be angry if she wanted to be. She was stubborn as any lost boy.

"Belle. Pretty name." He stopped in front of her. "And what can I do for you, Belle?"

"I need to go back. That's what you do, right?"

He spread his arms. "Guilty as charged. Tell me, though, Belle—why would someone like you want to go back? You've got two strong men right here."

It wouldn't be difficult to sound angry—the challenge would be in pretending it was at her murderer instead of Pan. Or maybe she wouldn't have to. Maybe if she attacked him, he'd believe in her resolve.

"It's not about having men. I had a life—and it was taken from me."

Pan stopped in front of her, and she met his eyes, feeling like they were blinding her. "You're not bitter at all."

It was like he had flipped a switch and drained all the ire from her chest. She looked up at him, into his weathered, childish face. "What do you mean?"

"Listen, Belle, I've been around for a long time. I can read people, and I can read you like an open book." He took a step closer, so that they were almost nose to nose.

"Are you the devil?" she blurted, then pressed her lips together. Peter Pan did not seem nearly so understanding as Death had been with her questions.

He laughed, though, and the sound made her bones crawl. "More like—the devil's advocate."

What was she supposed to think of that? Could he decide her fate for her? Not even the fire could help the chill that thought brought.

"You know, you have a lot of energy." He reached out and touched her shoulder, and when he pulled his hand back, his palm was a shade brighter than it had been. "More energy than I've ever seen. What's your story?"

_Don't tell him anything personal_. "I'm angry," she said, though the wind had been let from her sails. "I—I don't—understand this place—and I want to make my own choices. I want to be free. I want to carve my own place in the world, and decide my own fate—not get lost here in this stupid desert wasteland. I'm not even supposed to be here. I didn't even die from that bullet wound!"

She swallowed, and nearly tripped backward just standing there. What had she done? Pan was watching her as if he was a moth and she was a flame, drawing him in with her brightness.

"How did you die?" he asked, reminding her of the children at the library on story day. She breathed—he didn't know.

"Hit my head on the pavement when I fell."

"That must make you angry."

"Furious."

He reached out and tucked a stray tuft of hair behind her ear, the gesture too rough and too deliberate. Belle tried to pry her wrists apart, but she was bound with the skill of a sailor.

"You know what, Belle?"

"What?"

"Because I am such a generous boy, I'm going to let you go back." His lip quirked up halfway, like wolf about to bare its teeth. "I'm going to trust you."

"Thank you." She swallowed, meeting his eyes. "You won't regret it."

"I'd better not." He reached out and cupped her cheeks, then dropped his hands like he'd burned them. "You really do have a lot of energy. You'll only need me to show you the way."

"What way?" she asked, watching him steel himself to cup her cheeks again. This time, she felt a faint buzzing around the outline of his fingers, like he was gathering magic.

"You won't need to come back here every night to be sent home. I'm going to teach you what to do."

She swallowed again, jaw pulsing against his thumb. "Okay. I'm ready."

"There are rules for your safety," he said, staring down at her. Was he taller than she was? "First, you have to pick one place and stay there. Even you don't have the energy to move around much."

"One place. Got it." She would go back to her father's house—she could read there, and tell him that she loved him.

"You'll be there only at night time. Once the sun starts to come up, you won't have enough energy to stay, so you'll return here."

"Okay." Would she give her father a terrible fright if she appeared at the foot of his bed in the middle of the night? He was prone to drinking—she imagined that this hadn't changed since her near-death.

"To go, you need only visualize where you're going."

He probably wouldn't even believe her—she wouldn't believe herself. Who would? "How do I decide where to go?"

"Best pick someone you hate, or think deserves to be punished. Someone you want to scare."

She didn't want to scare anyone. Who would be the least frightened? She didn't have many friends, and those she did have wouldn't be terribly useful. Who was useful and brave?

"Perhaps the man who shot you?" he suggested. "Or perhaps someone snubbed you recently—you seem the sort to get offended on behalf of waiters and cashiers."

As though the memories had been waiting for the right moment to jump free, she was flooded with images of standing in line at the coffee shop, Mr. Gold reading over her shoulder. They were meant to go on a date—or, at least, she'd been planning to ask him on a real one once they'd spent half an hour or so drinking coffee together at his request. Mr. Gold wasn't afraid of anything—and despite his prim and proper no-nonsense attitude, her gut told her that he'd believe her.

"You've made a decision," Pan said. It wasn't a question.

"I have, but—what if I don't know where he lives?"

"Just picture him, and anything about him that might tie him to a location. And then pray that he's somewhere you want to be, because it's forever."

She swallowed. What if he was in the coffee shop? The diner? What if she got stuck haunting his car?

"Having second thoughts?"

"No. Just thinking."

"Put your hands over mine," Pan said, and the ties around Belle's wrists dropped away. She flexed her arms for a few seconds, and then did as she was bid. "Are you ready?"

"I think so."

"Close your eyes."

Fingers pressed over Pan's roughened knuckles, she squeezed her eyes shut, and thought long and hard about a golden-topped cane and a man she hoped she would see again.


	4. The Last Will & Testament

Gold hadn't slept well in years. Tossing and turning was par for the course for him, as was waking up with aches and pains that refused to abate. He wasn't that old—these days, forty-six was practically young—but he had enough bitterness and injury to keep him awake for a lifetime.

This week, he'd had a crushing bout of disappointment added to the mix, so he didn't even toss and turn. Instead, he sipped whisky from a tumbler that he kept next to the bottle of Glenfiddich on his nightstand, and stared at the wall. Sometimes, he dozed off, but he always woke with a start to pour himself more.

Tonight, he set his whisky glass down and turned off the light. It was nearing midnight, and tomorrow was rent day, and while he looked more beastly without sleep, he didn't feel it.

He lay on his back, hands folded over his belly, and stared up at the ceiling instead of the wall. The liquor soothed his body, but it didn't soothe his mind, and all he could do was replay the same few scenes in his head over and over.

_Tomorrow?_ Belle would say, and then she'd look up at him all eyelashes and pouty lips. Or maybe he was remembering that wrong—maybe he'd suggested tomorrow, and she'd just repeated it as though it was a bad taste she wanted to get off her tongue. That sounded more accurate.

_Tomorrow?_ But she was too polite to follow up with what she was thinking—_Ugh, like I'd ever spend time with someone like you, Mr. Gold_—or maybe even _When I tell my boyfriend about this, we're going to have a good laugh_.

She'd said she'd see him, but maybe that was her polite way of planning to stand him up. It probably was. He'd envisioned himself walking into the coffee shop alone and remaining alone countless times—helped along by the fact that, now that she was lying in the hospital hooked up to machines, he was always alone in the coffee shop.

_Tomorrow? How about never?_ But even Gold had to laugh at that—Belle would never sound like a stuck-up teenager, even if she was insulting him. She was too sophisticated.

"Mr. Gold?"

Mr. Gold was not a man who frightened easily, but if anything could scare him, it was his own mind—and the fact that his mind had conjured up a realistic version of Belle's voice turned his face ashen. He squeezed his eyes shut, counted to five, and then opened them again.

There, standing before him, was Belle. He'd been drinking a lot, but he'd never hallucinated before—it was not a development he was interested in pursuing.

"Go away," he told the vision, using his best shark voice. "I am not crazy."

"No, Mr. Gold, it's me. I'm here. You're not crazy."

"No. You are lying in the hospital in a coma." He flopped down until he was horizontal, and forced his eyes shut. "Go. Away."

Everything was silent, but he kept his eyes shut for thirty seconds to make sure it would stay that way. When he opened them, Belle was standing right next to his bed. With a strangled grunt, he flopped to the left. How did a man escape his own hallucination?

"Mr. Gold, please! Listen to me, I'm right here, you're not crazy, and I really need to talk to you."

He stared at the apparition, at the way it bit its lip in perfect imitation of the woman he knew, the clasp of tiny hands, the watering blue eyes. She was dirty—hair a mess, face streaked with black, and wearing a sweatshirt that looked about twenty years old. Why would his mind have conjured up a Belle he'd never seen?

"Can you prove it?" He struggled to a sitting position, watching her. If she was here as an apparition, did that mean she was dead?

"Um, I'm not sure, he didn't say whether I could touch anything." She looked around, and her eyes fell on his ledger. Concentrating hard, she walked over to it and picked it up. It dropped from her fingers seconds later, but the look of delight she gave him at having held it in the first place was enough to have him assure her that he would get it later.

"So you believe me?" she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Against my better judgment." He rubbed a hand over his face. "Are you dead, then?"

She shook her head. "That's why I had to come back."

He frowned. Maybe she was just a really good hallucination. "I don't often admit to this, but I don't understand what it is you're telling me."

"My body isn't dead, but the rest of me is. But since I'm still alive, I have enough energy to come back and haunt people."

"So you're haunting me?"

"Essentially." She looked down at her lap, twisting her fingers around. "I thought it might make up for missing our date."

His neck snapped to look at her, and he reached behind him to rub out the ensuing pain. "Well, now I know you're not real."

"What?" She shifted around, not making a dent on the bed, and faced him with a frown. "Why?"

"Coming back from the dead to go on a date with me? Unlikely, dear."

"Well, it's true. Your house is the place I have chosen to haunt, and I will be here every night." She folded her arms, looking down at him like a schoolmarm.

"Every night?"

"Yes." She hunched, chewing the corner of her lip. "If—if that's all right with you, that is. I don't want to be a bother."

He should have snarled at her, relegated her to a room that he didn't need to be sleeping in, but instead he found himself shaking his head. "No, it's no bother. As long as word doesn't get out that I've gone soft for a ghost."

"Well, I certainly won't tell anyone."

"Good. You'd regret it if you did."

She laughed, and then he laughed, and then he was laughing with a ghost on his bed, and he started wheezing instead. Cool air touched one spot on his back, and when he looked up, it was Belle's hand.

"Should we have a cup of tea, then, and go on our date?" she asked.

This was surreal. "Can you drink tea in this state?"

She looked down at herself, and then, with concentrated effort, stuck her arm right through his sternum. He wheezed again, though he couldn't actually feel anything, and she yanked it back out. "No, I don't think so."

"Then I want Scotch." He reached around her for his bottle and his tumbler, and poured himself a generous dose. Belle laughed again, and if he just focused on that sound, he might make it through this encounter.

"Do you want to sit at a table?" she asked. "Make it more date-like?"

"It is the middle of the night, and I don't relish the idea of you seeing my pajamas in all of their glory." Of course, they were just plain charcoal silk, but they hung like pajamas instead of a fine suit, and he was vain enough to find that distasteful.

"I wish I could take this jacket off," she said. "I'm wearing a cute dress."

"I know," he said, taking a sip of his scotch. The burn helped. "You were wearing it last week."

"Last _week_?" Her voice was a squawk, shrill enough that he jumped. "How long have I been dead?"

He swallowed. "A week. Well, eight days, really."

"_Eight_ days? It's been about six hours for me."

"I don't know what to tell you."

"What's been going on?"

He sighed, shifting around in preparation to tell the story. "Well, your father has been selling his possessions to keep your body alive, and August Booth disappeared as soon as they tried to team up together. Either he's off to obtain the money illegally, or he's running away from responsibility. His father assumes the second."

"Is this all in the papers?"

"No, of course not. That story is courtesy of me."

"How do you know all this?"

"I have my ways."

She shook her head, looking down at her clasped hands, and somehow, he knew that her little snuffling noise was a laughter. He was making her laugh. Maybe he could get her to roll her eyes at him, like she usually did.

"So how did you come back?"

Belle shook her head. "I'm not sure you'd believe me if I told you."

"I'm willing to suspend my disbelief for the night, all things considered."

"Peter Pan sent me back."

She was right. His suspension of disbelief did not go that far. "I beg your pardon?"

She started to unfold herself from the bed, forehead wrinkling. "I told you that you wouldn't—"

"No, no, I believe you!" He stretched toward her, though he couldn't have grasped her even if she was in reach. "I just need to hear it again—maybe a few more times. To digest it."

"Peter Pan sent me back. He's some sort of lord of dead children or something." She raised her arms in front of her, studying her wrists. "That's how I got these."

She thrust her forearms toward him, and if he squinted, he could see faint, uneven welts, as though she'd been wearing a bracelet of thorns.

"From being sent back?"

"No, from being tied up. His 'Lost Boys' are beastly. They just screech and howl and tie people to trees."

"I never trusted that story," he said, though he wasn't sure how to feel about this one, either. "Pan always seemed suspicious."

"Very suspicious. But helpful in general, considering it got me here. Although, he does think I'm here causing havoc."

"You did almost send me into cardiac arrest." His heart was no longer pounding, though. The Scotch helped.

"I am sorry about that. Truly." She laid a hand on his shoulder, and he saw her fingers squeeze, but felt nothing other than a whisper of air over silk.

"So." He cleared his throat. "Is this it, then? You'll be haunting my home from generation to generation?" It made sense that his one desperate chance at happiness would come in a less than corporeal form. Monsters belonged with other monsters.

"I don't imagine so, no. Death says that my unfinished business is dying, so when my body dies, I'll probably pass on."

"Pass on? For good?" He took a sip of scotch, and it went down like dry ice.

"I think so." She licked her lips, looking down, and he had the impression that she was hiding something. Under normal circumstances, he would have pressed for information, but he wasn't sure that his head wouldn't explode with extraneous information.

"Will you be here all the time?"

She shook her head. "Only when the sun's down. Then I have to go recharge."

"Just like anyone else," he murmured, face drawn in thought. He could keep her alive indefinitely, he was sure, though it might take a little subterfuge. Then, when he died, she would die, and they would pass on together—unless, of course, he was damned and she wasn't, but he could cross that bridge when he got to it.

"I'm going to try to get back into my body, but Death thinks I won't have enough time."

Gold lifted his head to look at her, feeling as though she were speaking an entirely different language. "I'm sorry, who thinks that?"

"Death. She greeted me. You know, when I died."

He nodded. Was he still sitting on the bed, or floating into a void? "I see."

When he looked down, Belle's hand was on his arm, and he started. How long had it been there? She squeezed.

"Maybe we should start our date?" She smiled at him, her pretty, blackberry smile, and his face twitched in response.

"I'd like that."

* * *

It was barely eight on a Saturday morning, but Mr. Gold was confident that he would have a guest in his shop soon. He himself had been there for an hour already, drawing up contracts and leaving voicemails. The shop sign was turned to 'closed,' but at eight on the dot, he would flip it to 'open.'

He had just returned to his counter from doing so when the bell tinkled and the door was flung wide, admitting a young man in a leather jacket and motorcycle helmet.

"Mr. Booth," Gold said, taking his time limping behind the counter. "You're out early."

"Yeah, hey. I, uh—I got your message." He strode over to the counter, eyes darting around to all of the trinkets. Both of their gazes fell upon a broken cuckoo clock. "About the inheritance?"

"Ah, yes. The fifty thousand bestowed upon you by your late great uncle."

"Yeah, the fifty thousand." He rested his hands on the glass, attention fully on Mr. Gold now. "It's funny, I didn't even know I had an uncle."

"Mr. Gideon was quite the recluse." From a drawer, Gold pulled his freshly scripted will, and the papers August would need to sign. "But very generous with his funds."

August leaned closer. "How come I've never seen these funds before? My father and I really struggled for awhile."

"He was not a family man until just before his death." Unfolding the papers, he slid them and a pen toward August. "He's bequeathed these funds in increments, but there are conditions."

August snatched the pen up, drawing the contracts closer. "Conditions?"

"Yes. Mr. Gideon was very concerned with doing the right thing, especially in his older age. He was not the sort to spend money frivolously."

Their eyes met, and Mr. Gold held August's stare. "There will be no further access to these funds if you don't spend wisely."

August narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Mr. Gideon believed in paying his dues, Mr. Booth. If he owed someone a life, he wouldn't have let that go to waste."

August stared at him as though he wasn't seeing him at all, hands still against the table. "What are you trying to say?"

"That, as the executor of Mr. Gideon's will, it is up to me to decide whether or not he would have found your spending acceptable, and I am of the opinion that one should not allow another to trade her life for his own."

August leaned so far forward that Mr. Gold had to step back. "You're saying I need to use the money to keep the girl in the hospital alive?"

"I'm not saying you need to do anything."

He smacked his lips together, and glanced down at his hands. "This next check—is it more than fifty grand?"

"I am not at liberty to discuss that with you," Gold said, having expected this question. "But do you want to take that chance?"

There was silence during which Mr. Gold kept his blandest expression, and August chewed the corner of his lip. Then, he smacked both hands on the desk and exhaled.

"All right. Where do I sign?"


End file.
